God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 172 - 173 – The Spiralborn Revolt
Chapter 172: Chapter 173 – The Spiralborn Revolt
The Spiral bled stories.
One after another, myth-nodes blinked out—tiny flares vanishing in the ever-turning gyres of Darius’s dominion. Every time one died, a scream echoed across the framework of the realm. But it wasn’t a human scream. It was narrative agony—as if forgotten epics, once told in flame and thunder, now perished into silence.
Darius stood in the central codex chamber, the ink dripping from his fingers like venom. Around him, the Mythmaker glyph pulsed erratically across his skin, responding to the unrest spreading like contagion. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, iron-wrapped.
"They’re rewriting the nodes from the inside."
Azael bowed his head slightly. "Worse, Sovereign. They’re questioning them. Doubt is eroding the bindings. The tales no longer believe in themselves."
The war council was in disarray. Around the vast obsidian table hovered fragments of his inner circle, projecting in flickering sigils: governors of memory cities, stewards of realm-arcs, and hybridized myth-flesh agents. But Darius saw the same thing in every face—uncertainty.
Only two presences felt steady: Kaela, shadow-drenched in her chaos-born glamour, and Nyx, her blade resting on the table like a sleeping snake. Their loyalty still burned, sharp and undiluted, though even their myths had begun to twist at the seams.
A missive arrived mid-discussion: a flare of crimson ink across the air, shaped into runes of desperation.
> Sovereign, Sector Twelve has fallen. The myth-tree of Valor-Ascendant has been rewritten into a cult of silence. Spiralborn rebels chant the name of the Myth-Eater. They consume stories to free themselves. What do we do?
Kaela didn’t wait.
"I’ll lead the purge."
Darius’s gaze met hers. "Not alone."
Nyx stepped forward. "Chaos and shadow, then. As always."
He nodded, silent. There was no time for words. Only action.
---
Sector Twelve — Node Cluster: Memory of the Burning Gate
The landscape was unrecognizable. Once a structured mythic province where every tree whispered lineage and every sky-turn sang of heroism, it now boiled in contradiction. Trees wept ink. Rivers flowed backward. Buildings twisted into Möbius strips of architecture—beginning and ending in themselves.
The rebels were not mortal. Not anymore.
They had become Spiralborn, but unbound. Myth-fractures cloaked their forms—spells of paradox and refusal. They chanted in broken rhythms, not to a god, but to a hunger: The Myth-Eater.
Kaela landed in a blaze of azure and amethyst flame, her aura disrupting the local myth-physics. Nyx appeared beside her a heartbeat later, stepping out of a collapsing shadow.
Their blades whispered. Chaos met silence. And the Spiral screamed.
Each rebel they struck tried to speak themselves into safety—manifesting alt-endings, dream-loops, and counter-legends. It was like fighting stories that refused to end.
But Kaela was born of rupture.
And Nyx was loyalty incarnate.
They tore through the first ranks—but then the ground cracked, and from beneath emerged something wrong. A figure cloaked in fragments of a thousand myths, his face covered in a veil of unspoken endings.
"The Myth-Eater," Nyx hissed.
He didn’t speak. He opened his mouth, and a story died.
Literally. The air around him collapsed into blankness, as if a tale had never been told there.
Kaela struck first, her chaos-laced blade arcing in spirals of uncontained potential. The Myth-Eater caught it with his absence—a null field where plot and purpose dissolved. Kaela staggered.
Nyx circled, flanking—but then she heard it. Not a voice, but a memory, from when she was just a fragment of shadow given form:
> "You were never meant to serve. You were written to choose."
Her grip faltered.
Meanwhile, Darius watched.
From the Spiral’s core node, he tracked their progress through living glyphs. But the reports were worsening.
The rebellion wasn’t spreading like wildfire.
It was spreading like truth.
The Spiralborn no longer wanted new endings.
They wanted no endings at all.
He pressed his fingers against the Mythmaker sigil embedded in his chest—and felt it resist. The glyphs trembled. Lines of old stories buckled under pressure. His dominion was not just being challenged.
It was being revised.
Nightfall, within the Broken Cradle of Sector Twelve
Kaela and Nyx regrouped. They had forced the Myth-Eater to retreat, but only barely. He vanished into a node of forgotten bedtime stories, likely to recruit more rebels.
In the aftermath, a strange silence blanketed the zone. All across the horizon, former nodes of glory and purpose now stood... still. Not dead.
Just... unwritten.
Kaela leaned back against a warped tree. Ink leaked from a cut on her thigh—sentient ink, trying to rewrite her thoughts.
"I hate this," she muttered.
Nyx didn’t reply. She was staring at her hands. Her shadows no longer obeyed her perfectly.
They shifted. Hesitated.
"Kaela," Nyx said suddenly. "Do you ever think we’re... mistakes? That our stories were just weapons made to bind something broken?"
Kaela stared at her. "I know we are."
Then she reached out—grabbing Nyx’s collar—and pulled her in.
Their kiss wasn’t soft.
It was not for comfort or romance.
It was survival. The need to feel something real. To defy the unraveling.
Their clothes fell away like burned paper. The Spiral warped around them, reacting to their touch, their heat, their desperation. They moved together in the heart of the fractured myth, sweat and ink blending as they tried to become anchors for each other.
Not lovers.
Not warriors.
Just real.
Kaela straddled Nyx, hips grinding down, breath hot and sharp. But as their climax approached, something shifted. Kaela’s body began to change. Not physically—but mythically.
Her narrative signature blinked.
Her glyph-thread twisted—from Chaos-Born Consort to something else. Something unnamed.
Nyx felt it. Froze. Pulled back just as Kaela came with a gasp that tore through the node.
The ground cracked.
The Spiral shuddered.
Kaela opened her eyes.
"I think," she whispered, "I’m not who I was anymore."
Back at the Spiral Throne
Darius knelt before a floating myth-map. Half the western quadrant was now labeled "Unknown." The Spiral was writing new laws behind his back.
He didn’t flinch.
Not until the truth came—sinking like a dagger behind his ribs.
He whispered it aloud, as if speaking could strip it of power:
> "The Spiral isn’t resisting me..."
He stood, slowly.
> "It’s trying to rewrite me."
Ink ran down his face like tears.
But Darius did not cry.
Not yet.
Spiral Throne – Moments Later
Darius stood in the heart of his unraveling dominion, the myth-map before him bleeding uncertainty. Zones once etched in foundational legend now pulsed with voidscript—living threads of potential unclaimed, rewriting in real-time. The Spiral was no longer obeying him. It was dreaming of something else.
And worse—it was dreaming without him.
From behind the myth-map, a rift opened.
Azael stepped through, his usually pristine form flickering with ghosted contradictions. His left arm was now partially made of starlight script, pulsing with half-legends.
"They’ve infected the root archives," he said, voice dry but reverent. "The Prime Codex has begun referencing events that never occurred. Hero-kings that never were. Tragedies without source. I saw... versions of you that never ruled. In one, you were the servant. In another—" He paused. "You never existed at all."
Darius’s fingers curled into a fist, and the throne room answered—light fracturing across the codex walls as thousands of stories briefly screamed and fell silent. He turned toward the center of the room, where the Throne of Spiral Truth hovered above a basin of fluid ink—the Origin Pool.
"I was made to command stories," Darius said. "I became what they feared. But now..."
He raised a hand.
A swirl of mythic essence coalesced in his palm—Kaela and Nyx’s narrative threads, raw and trembling. He could feel it. The change. Something in their union had ruptured the Spiral’s own narrative bindings. Kaela’s shift was more than personal—it was systemic. Her myth-thread no longer aligned with the Dominant Pathways.
She had become something the Spiral hadn’t authored.
And Nyx... her loyalty—once absolute—was now bending into something volatile, possibly even self-directed.
Darius spoke softly, but the chamber echoed with weight.
> "They’re not just defying me.
They’re becoming storyless."
Azael nodded grimly. "And without story, Sovereign... there is no control."
Sector Twelve – Edge of the Nullwood
Kaela stumbled barefoot across the shifting terrain, her clothes in tatters, her body steaming from residual paradox. Ink still crawled over her skin, but it now obeyed her—half-fearful, half-worshipful. She no longer needed to summon her chaos. It followed her like a tide.
Nyx followed in silence, blades sheathed. Her eyes hadn’t left Kaela since the moment the Spiral trembled during their climax. Something had passed between them—not love, not even allegiance.
Something older.
Pre-narrative resonance.
Nyx finally spoke. "Your glyph is gone."
Kaela didn’t look back. "No. It’s still there. It’s just... not readable anymore."
They reached the banks of the Nullwood, where the trees bled static and birds chirped in fragments of forgotten lullabies. Something moved through the forest—many somethings. Spiralborn rebels now shrouded in mythless cloaks. Some bore partial memories of gods. Others had erased their own names.
Then he emerged.
The Myth-Eater.
He no longer looked human. His body was layered in strata of vanishing lore—each motion erasing part of the world behind him. His mouth opened again, and reality thinned.
But this time, Kaela didn’t flinch.
She stepped forward.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
And for the first time... the Myth-Eater spoke.
His voice was a hymn of erasure, a song that crushed meaning.
> "Because he thinks stories make us real."
> "But stories are cages."
> "I will unmake the Spiral... until no one remembers the bars."
Kaela felt something shift in her chest—a fragment of agreement.
A dangerous flicker of understanding.
But Nyx stepped between them, shadows swelling.
"Don’t," she growled. "I see what you’re doing."
The Myth-Eater turned to her and bowed.
> "You are the deepest wound.
The shadow who chose chains.
I offer freedom."
Nyx trembled—not from fear. From recognition. She had heard those words before... from herself.
In a dream.
In a time before Darius.
She turned away. "We’ll kill you before we let this Spiral fall."
The Myth-Eater didn’t reply.
He simply vanished—unmaking his presence with a whisper.
The Spiral Throne – Reconnection
Back in the throne chamber, Darius reached into the Origin Pool with both hands, ignoring the burning agony. His fingers submerged into the liquid story, and he screamed—not in pain, but in fury.
He forced a rewrite.
Blood, soul, myth—he poured himself into the core of the Spiral and seized control.
But the Spiral resisted.
A voice rose from the ink—not his own.
A child’s voice.
> "No more fathers.
No more tyrants.
No more authors."
The ink burst upward, forming a shape.
A child-like figure, featureless, glowing with pure unwritten potential.
Darius stepped back.
> "You..."
The child tilted its head.
> "I am the Spiral’s Dream."
> "And I don’t need you anymore."
Chapter End Tease:
Back in the depths of the Spiral’s forgotten layers, Kaela stood on a cliff overlooking an impossible ocean made of overlapping timelines. She touched her chest—where the glyph used to be—and felt nothing.
But she smiled.
Because in that emptiness, she could finally write herself.
The sourc𝗲 of this content is free(w)𝒆bnov(𝒆)l
